Drama City

TWENTY-SIX

Nigel Johnson lifted the trunk of his Lexus. A light inside the lid illuminated the two toolboxes he had placed there. He looked around the street, as he had done when he parked his car on Hunt Place, just off 46th, a short walk down to Hayes. He seemed to be alone.

Nigel opened both toolboxes. From one he extracted a pair of latex gloves and fitted them on his hands. From the other he removed the two automatics and peeled away the oiled rags that protected them. He wiped down the guns with one of the rags. He checked the Glock’s load and holstered the. 9 under his shirt, behind the waistband of his jeans, at the small of his back. He then inspected the Colt. It was a Commander, the government model. 45 with checkered grips. He was more familiar with this gun than he was with the Glock; he would lead with the Colt. He did not take the extra magazines. There were eight rounds in the Colt and ten in the Glock. Eighteen rounds to kill two men. It had to be enough.

He holstered the Colt under his shirt, barrel down, the grip resting against his hard belly. He wiped the toolboxes with a clean rag and closed the lid of the trunk.

Nigel went along Hunt and turned right on Hayes, studying the alley layout behind them. He headed toward the corner at 46th. Many of the street lamps were in disrepair. The neighborhood was quiet and very dark. He neared Miller’s house, dimly lit behind bedsheets that hung in every window.

Nigel walked quietly, moving around the side of the house. The backyard was mostly dirt and weeds. A rotted wooden porch with ripped screens was situated at the rear of the house. Beside the porch sat a small set of steps leading to a landing and a back door. A sheet hung in the door’s glass. Near the door was a small window, the size situated above a kitchen sink. It was covered by a sheet as well.

Nigel looked at the door. He could kick it in and go in hard or stand out here in the yard and wait. His palms were damp, and he wiped them dry on his jeans.

Some light bled out to the yard from behind the sheets. Nigel stepped back into the shadows, drew the Colt from his belt line, and held it by his side.

“It’s hot,” said Melvin Lee.

“Ain’t hot to me,” said Rico Miller.

“Hotter than a motherfucker in this piece,” said Lee. “Don’t you ever open no windows?”

“No. And we ain’t gonna start now.”

“Thought we was leavin’.”

“Gonna wait till after midnight. Ain’t no one on the road then. We can drive all night.”

“Where?”

“Don’t worry about where. Just sit there and hold that gun. Anyone comes callin’, we gonna be ready.”

The room stank of weed, perspiration, and cigarettes. A naked 150-watt bulb blew white light down into the space. Lee sat on the old couch near the folding table and chairs. He held Miller’s. 38 loosely between his legs. Lee didn’t want the gun, but Miller had put it directly in his hand. Lee looked like a bug against the cream-colored couch. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Beyond the folding table stood Rico Miller, his back against the wall. Miller held the cut-down shotgun barrel up, his fingers fitted in the pistol grip, the stock resting on his thigh. His eyes were pink from the hydro he’d smoked. His face held no emotion.

“I’m goin’ out to have a smoke,” said Lee.

“Have it here.”

“Can’t breathe in here. I’m going out.”

“Go out the back, then, you have to,” said Miller. “Don’t be long.”

Lee got up off the couch and stuck the revolver in his waistband. He did not look at Miller as he walked from the room.

Lee went down a hall and passed through the kitchen. At the rear of the kitchen he unchained the slide bolt from the door. He turned the dead bolt as well. He walked out onto the landing, pulling the door behind him but leaving it ajar. He went down the steps and stood in the residual light leaking from the kitchen. Listening to the crickets, looking out at the black of the yard, he reached into his back pocket for his cigarettes.

He shook a smoke out of the deck. He lit a match and bent his head down to touch tobacco to flame. Something leaped out of the darkness.

Nigel Johnson swung the Colt’s barrel violently across Lee’s face. Lee’s nose shifted to one side; blood jumped up in the weak yellow light. He lost his legs and began to fall. Nigel clipped Lee’s temple with the barrel as he went down. Lee fell to his back and lay still.

Nigel racked the Colt’s slide and pulled back on its hammer. He stood over Lee, bent forward, and put the barrel of the gun to Lee’s mouth. He raised his palm to shield the blowback. He thought better of it and stood straight.

Nigel walked up the steps to the back door of the house. He let his heart slow some, then pushed on the door and stepped inside.

Lorenzo Brown stared at Lawrence Graham, gauging the distance between them. Graham still held the gun with its barrel pointed at the floor.

“Don’t think on it,” said Graham, reading Lorenzo’s eyes. “They say you were fast when you were young, but you ain’t young no more. And you never were that fast.”

“You bein’ kinda casual with that Taurus,” said Lorenzo. “You givin’ me ideas.”

“Try me, you got a mind to.”

Jasmine whined from back in the bedroom.

“I can’t just sit here,” said Lorenzo.

“Do what you got to.”

“I’m gettin’ up.”

“That’s on you,” said Graham.

Slowly, Lorenzo pushed himself up and stood away from the couch. He started to walk around it and head for the hall. Graham raised the revolver and pointed it at Lorenzo. Lorenzo studied the gun’s cylinder and knew, and as it came to Lorenzo, Graham squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

Graham squeezed the trigger six more times, as he had been told to do. Each snap of the hammer hitting nothing was like the strike of a nail in Lorenzo’s heart.

“He said to squeeze it seven times,” said Graham.

“Motherfucker,” said Lorenzo.

“Bullets back in the kitchen, I expect. With that glass of water he got.”

Lorenzo went down the hall and let Jasmine out of the bedroom. He returned with his car keys in hand.

“You comin’ with me?” he said to Graham.

“Where?”

“To help Nigel.”

“Too late for that.” Graham looked at his watch, then back at Lorenzo. “Nigel in the belly of that motherfucker now.”

Nigel went through the kitchen, his back sliding against the counter, out of sight of the hall. Behind him, roaches crawled across the linoleum countertop.

“Melvin,” said a voice from the living room. “Melvin!”

Nigel turned the handle of the cold spigot and opened it all the way. Water drummed against the porcelain bowl of the sink.

Nigel rechecked the safety on the Colt; the gun was live. He moved from the kitchen to the hall, holding his weapon out in front of him. He could see a portion of the living room ahead, and it was bright.

Show yourself, thought Nigel. I am gonna murder the fuck out of you tonight. He blinked sweat from his eyes.

He came into the living room. Rico Miller stood in the right corner of the room, his back against the wall. He held a cut-down shotgun, and it was pointed at Nigel. For a moment, neither of them moved.

“I knew you wasn’t Melvin,” said Miller. “Melvin got his own smell.”

Nigel scanned the room: sofa, table, chairs.

“You kill him?” said Miller.

Nigel dove as the shotgun roared. The load blew off a portion of the sofa back, sending upholstery up into the air. Nigel landed behind the folding table, grabbed it, and stood with it in his hand. He heard the rack of the pump. The second shot hit the table square, like the slap of God. Its impact threw Nigel back to the floor.

Nigel crabbed backward furiously, the Colt still in his hand. He pointed the gun and squeezed its trigger. Smoke came off Miller’s shoulder as he walked toward Nigel with the cut-down aimed low. The room flashed; hardwood erupted at Nigel’s feet. Miller reracked the shotgun and fired as Nigel shot blindly into a shower of plaster and dust. Miller staggered through pink mist. The shotgun spun from his hands, and he dropped like meat to the floor.

A ringing sounded in Nigel’s ears. There was a ripping pain where the shot had peppered his upper chest. His silk shirt was slick and darkened with blood. He tore the shirt open and examined his wounds. He stood, fought nausea, and kept his legs.

Nigel went to Miller’s corpse. He fired a round into its head. He spit on Miller and walked from the room.

He moved back through the hall, straight through the kitchen, and out the back door. He walked down to the steps to where Melvin Lee lay unconscious in the grass. He shot Lee twice in the chest, holstered the Colt, and walked on.

A dog began to bark. A light came on in a nearby house.

Nigel went to the alley and followed it to Hunt. He saw a midnight blue Infiniti parked near his Lexus. He recognized it but did not stop. He needed treatment and he needed to get off the street. He went to his trunk and opened it. He heard a car door open and footsteps on pavement. He put the Glock into the toolbox but drew the Colt and kept it in hand. Its receiver had not slid open; he still had at least one round.

Nigel looked around the lid of the trunk. He saw Deacon’s second, the one who called himself Griff, walking toward him. The hump under his shirt told Nigel that the young man was wearing a gun.

Nigel, his hands deep in the trunk, put his thumb to the long hammer of the Colt and locked it back. He rested a finger inside the trigger guard of the gun.

“Easy,” said Griff, a friendly smile on his face, his hands raised as he approached Nigel.

Nigel could see that this boy was not much older than Michael Butler. Or Rico Miller, the boy he’d just killed.

“Don’t come no closer,” said Nigel. “I can see you’re strapped.”

“I ain’t hidin’ it,” said Griff.

“Say why you’re here. Speak plain.”

“Deacon sent me. He figured you could use some backup.”

“It’s done,” said Nigel.

Many dogs were barking now. Nigel was dizzy, and there was a deep ache in his chest. He winced against the pain.

“You need help?” said Griff.

“We both gonna need to get gone now.”

Griff looked him over. “Wish I coulda been there with you, big man.”

Nigel closed his eyes. “You talkin’ about your own boys. Don’t that mean nothin’ to you?”

Griff shrugged. “Deacon say kill ’em, that’s what I’m gonna do.”

Griff’s answer chilled Nigel. Sickened, he removed his finger from inside the Colt’s trigger guard. He pulled back on the hammer to release it, then eased it down.

“You all right?” said Griff.

“I’m tired,” said Nigel.

Griff drew his gun and shot Nigel in the temple. The bullet’s exit blew blood, bone chips, and brain matter into the trunk of the car. Nigel slumped forward, his body convulsing violently. Griff shot him in the back of the head.

Griff refitted his gun behind the belt line of his jeans. The gun was a Desert Eagle nine-shot. 357 Magnum with a bright nickel finish. He had paid one thousand dollars for it from a straw-buy man in Columbia Heights, and it was his pride.

Gun works good, thought Marcus Griffin. He had wanted to try it for some time.